Brothers Stick Together
by 3.1415926535897932384626433383
Summary: Sherlock couldn't care less about going into yet another foster home. They aren't his foster family, anyways. His family is John and Mycroft, and that's all he needs. Mycroft won't let them be split up anyways, so who cares if he goes into yet another foster home? Besides, soon Mycroft will be old enough to adopt them. They only need to survive that long.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock stared out the window, the trees passing by in a blur of green. Nothing was clear at all, everything changing before he could see and understand it; all that he could really perceive was a haze of color. He couldn't even make out the individual colors, it was all speeding by so fast.

Beside him, John lay asleep, his head resting on Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft was staring out the window too, probably thinking about his stupid schoolwork. Sherlock turned back around bitterly. Brothers were supposed to stick together, not... this. They wouldn't be here if it weren't for Mycroft. Brothers were supposed to stick together.

Six months ago, they had been fine. They didn't need parents anyways, and besides, it had almost been a relief when they hadn't come home. Mycroft had gotten a job, and Sherlock could've gotten one too, if they had needed. They would have been fine.

Except Mycroft had come home a few days later in someone's car instead of walking home, some neighbor or classmate or something, and the next day a policeman had shown up to take them away. Mycroft didn't even try to lie. And now here they were, with a caseworker, everything they had in three beat up suitcases that had been in the back of the closet, going to yet another foster home with yet another foster family. They weren't really family, though, Sherlock knew that. Family was him and Mycroft and John. Family was the Holmeses, not the Smiths or the Buchanans or anyone else.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Dougherty, the caseworker.

"Listen, guys. I know it's difficult to adjust to a new home and a new family, but I need you to make this one work. I need you to be able to stay here. This is the last family willing to take all three of you, especially when Mycroft and Sherlock are so old, so if this one doesn't work out, you'll have to be split up, and I know you don't want that to happen. And don't say this family won't be good for foster kids. Martha has already adopted several of the kids she's fostered. You need to make this work," she said. "Sherlock, I'm talking to you in particular. Please try to get settled in. Don't make trouble. Try to be a part of the family. If you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for John - he needs one." Sherlock didn't reply. John had all the family he needed. He and Mycroft were plenty.

The car pulled up a few minutes later in the driveway of a big white house. It was huge, two or three stories tall, with a wrap-around porch and a tire swing hanging off of a big tree in the front yard. It's too good to be true, Sherlock thought, and resolved not to be taken in by the first impression. John, however, was immediately enamored.

"Sherlock, look, they've got a tire swing! Look at that tree, look at the branches. Don't you think that's a perfect climbing tree? We could build a tree fort up there. Mycroft - Mycroft, look, there're the other kids. I'm going to say hello!" said John, and he scrambled over Sherlock's lap in his haste to get out of the door, planting an elbow in his nose by accident.

Sherlock scowled. He already knew this would be terrible.


	2. Chapter 2

Even Sherlock had to admit that his bedroom was amazing, with its huge, comfortable bed, his own desk, and even - he almost couldn't believe this - an actual balcony. It was almost the perfect bedroom, and there was really only one thing wrong with it: it was only his.

Sherlock had shared a room with John for his entire life, or at least all of the parts he could remember. Even through all the time they'd been in foster care, they'd been together. He had never been alone before, and neither had John. What if John had a bad dream or he wet the bed or he woke up in the middle of the night and remembered suddenly where they were and needed him? He definitely couldn't be alone.

He said as much to Mrs Hudson, who he thought might understand. She only smiled at him, then asked if he wanted help unpacking.

"All these empty shelves are yours, too, now, don't forget. It's not just the dresser. You have the whole room."

He glared.

"Show me John's room," he demanded.

"Please," she said.

"What?"

"It's show me John's room, iplease." /i

He gave her his deepest, darkest, worst scowl. Who did she think she was, anyways? Not his mother.

"Go on, now," she said, unfazed. He brought up the intensity as much as he could. It still didn't work.

"Well, then, I'm sure you'll find it eventually on your own. I'll see you at dinner, dearie," she said, still unfazed, and then turned and walked out of his room and down the hall. He stared at her back in disbelief. Not only had his stare not worked, but it had failed to even make her angry. This total lack of reaction was completely new to him, and he certainly did not like it. With one final glare at her back, which was heading downstairs, he left to explore the house and find John's room.

It wasn't hard to find, as it turned out; it was at the other end of the hall. There were a couple of rooms in between, but he didn't really explore them, just stuck his head in and, not seeing John, turned away and shut the door.

John's room was a little bigger than Sherlock's, and definitely more... comfortable? He wasn't quite sure how to describe it. The reason was apparent. There was a toy box full of toys, books on the walls, a mess on the floor, two twin beds, and two other boys in there already, playing trains happily with John. They were very obviously intent on what they were doing, and they didn't even notice Sherlock. He stared at John, who was laughing and playing and completely carefree... without Sherlock.

Sherlock slammed the door and ran back into his bedroom, slamming his own door too as he ran in. He threw himself onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, eyes burning with angry tears. It was supposed to be him and John and even Mycroft against the rest of the world. They were a family, not he and John and Mycroft and... and whoever they were! Just because they lived here and just because the Holmes brothers were staying with them, just because they were called their 'foster family' didn't mean they were anything. Nothing. And John should know that. He should be here, with Sherlock, exploring the house and helping unpack and bothering Mycroft and not, not doing that.

Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up. He grabbed the duffel bag that had his things in it and zipped it open, digging through the contents until he found what he was looking for: his Chemistry textbook. It was old and probably out of date and some of the pages were missing, but it was his and it was what he had and maybe he did know it from cover to cover but it was his and it was familiar and it would always stay with him. He flopped back onto the bed and began to read.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock flat-out refused to come down to dinner that evening. He wasn't hungry, he said, and leave him alone! The little kid who had been sent to interrupt him - he introduced himself as Charlie - only stuck out his tongue when Sherlock said that and ran downstairs to report to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock wasn't sorry to see him go, and he was relieved when no one else came upstairs.

After dinner was a different matter, though. He heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs, down the hall, and finally stop at his door to knock.

"Go away!" he yelled. Instead, she opened the door. He scowled at her; it had about as much effect as it had had the last time.

She didn't say anything for a few minutes and he could practically hear her building up to shout at him for not coming down to dinner. He stiffened in anticipation, though he kept his chin up.

He waited for something that never came.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" said Mrs Hudson. "Do you need help settling in?" He stared at her, confused. This was precisely the opposite of what he had expected.

"What?"

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said. He didn't need anything from this woman.

"Are you sure?" she asked, closing the door and coming over to sit at the foot of his bed. He refused to answer her. "Well, if you're sure you don't want my help, then I'll let you be alone. But if you ever need anything, or if you just want to talk, you come see me, okay?"

"Sure," Sherlock said shortly. He waited for her to leave; she was taking her own sweet time about it, lingering in the doorway. Finally, she left, leaving him to his solitude.

The next morning he was woken up bright and early by John, of all people. He bounced into the room with what was entirely too much vigor for that time of day - Sherlock thought it must be six, at least. He refused to look at John, instead burying his head beneath the covers and trying to block out his incessantly cheery chatter.

"It's time to wake up! Aren't you excited for the day? We can swing on the tire swing and climb up the tree in the front yard, and Rob said there was a stream out back, just a little one. We could play in it and wade! This is a good day, Sherlock, already! And we had pancakes for breakfast with a funny kind of syrup - it was kind of purple-y and it tasted really good. There's still some breakfast left downstairs if you want to come and et it. We left it out for you because we all ate ages ago but Mom said to let you sleep in if you wanted because - "

Sherlock sat up and fixed a horrible glare on John.

"Did you call her Mom?" he demanded. John took a step away from his bed, surprised by his anger.

"Well, yes, because she is our foster mom - "

"She's not Mom! She's not our mother, she's just taking care of us until Mom comes back and she isn't our mom!" He was shouting by the end, fierce and angry and enough to make John quail away from him.

"I just meant - "

"Get OUT!" Sherlock shouted as he threw a pillow at John. "Just because Mom and Dad are gone for a while doesn't mean this is our family at all! Just because you like them better and you want to stay here and just because you don't know what our family is, it's just you and me and Mycroft and not these people!"

"Mycroft said - " John began, but Sherlock all but leapt out of bed and shoved him towards the door, slamming it behind him. He threw on his clothes, which he still hadn't unpacked, and stormed out to the balcony in fury. It was perfect, really - too easy. Not four feet from his balcony was a tree, or a tree's limbs at least, that if he jumped he could just reach and climb down. He climbed up on the railing of the balcony, arms windmilling furiously for a moment as he got his balance, then he jumped as hard as he could and -

WHAM

he hit the ground, landing squarely on his left foot. The shock ran up his leg and into his waist and he bent reflexively, his hands and knees hitting the ground a moment later as he tipped forwards. After the initial shock came a dull, throbbing pain and, worse, the realization that he had missed the tree by almost a foot and a half. Excellent.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock managed to get back into the house and up to his room without anyone seeing him and without making too much noise. Once up there, he sat down rather heavily on the bed and considered the problem that was his ankle. This would be difficult to keep hidden.

He was pretty sure it wasn't broken. He had never broken a bone before, but he was fairly certain he would know if that was the case. In fact, it seemed to be a relatively minor injury. It was bruised and swollen, of course, and it would certainly get more swollen and darker where it was bruised, but he thought it would probably be okay. Eventually.

He was fairly certain that ankles, sprained, twisted, or broken, were supposed to be wrapped and iced somehow, and that was a problem. He didn't have Ace bandages and he had no idea where any were in the house, or even if there were any in the house. He thought for a moment; the bathroom closet, maybe? It was worth a look.

He walked around his room a few times to get the hang of walking without a limp, just in case someone came upstairs while he was walking to or from the bathroom, then he set off.

The bathroom was by John's room, all the way down the hall, which hadn't seemed nearly as far when he had been exploring the upper floor yesterday. Right now, though, when every step shot a jolt of pain up his leg, it seemed like the hallway that would never end.

The bathroom was a cheery affair, all blue and white, with ridiculous little ducks absolutely everywhere, from the hand towels to the shower curtain to the rug on the floor, which was shaped, unsurprisingly, like a duck. It was dreadful. The closet was no different.

He searched through the extremely disorganized closet for a few minutes, digging through piles of towels and boxes filled with everything from toothpaste to band-aids to little tiny hotel lotions. It looked like someone had started a collection; there must have been 40 or 50 of them. Finally, behind a container full of spare toothbrushes, all the same model in the exact same color, he found what he needed: proper bandages.

He grabbed them and stuck the whole roll in his pocket - he didn't know how much he might need and he could always put the excess back later - then set off, back down the hall and into his room, where he shut and locked the door.

He sat down heavily on his bed and pulled out the roll of bandages. On second thought, he thought it might be gauze, although he wasn't quite sure if there was a difference between Ace bandages and gauze; maybe they were the same thing. Well, whatever he had now would have to do the trick. He pulled his pants leg up to his knee and winced when he saw his foot. It was twice as swollen as it had been before and there was no way that he would be able to get that into a shoe. Excellent.

He set about the business of wrapping it up. He had never wrapped an ankle before, or even seen it done, so it was all guess work, but he did the best he could and wrapped it as tightly as he could. Then he spent a few more minutes practicing walking on it without limping, which was difficult but possible, and lay back down on his bed, foot on a pillow and under a blanket, to reread his chemistry textbook.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock decided he would come down for lunch. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before and while he normally wouldn't care, he wanted his ankle to heal quickly and without a trace, which meant he needed to eat. At least a little.

Before he went down, he checked the wrappings. His left foot was looking slightly darker than the right. Obviously the bruises had come into full bloom. He pulled the bandage a little tighter, then pulled on a pair of thick socks to hide it.

Lunch was a simple affair of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, plain peanut butter for Mycroft, who didn't like jelly, that was over quickly. Sherlock was relieved to be the first one to finish. He brought his plate and glass over to the sink and rinsed them off and then made his escape into the living room and up the stairs.

Except, he didn't make it up the stairs. Halfway up the stairs, he must have stepped the wrong way or on the wrong spot, or maybe his ankle just didn't feel like cooperating, but just as he set his foot down it twinged particularly painfully and Sherlock was sent tumbling down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

"Are you okay?"

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

Everyone rushed into the living room, where Sherlock was laying half upside down at the foot of the stairs. He rolled himself around to be right side up again, an embarrassed flush painting his cheeks red.

"I'm fine," he growled.

"Let me see, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. He scowled.

"I'm fine," he repeated, but she didn't listen to him. She took his hand and pulled him to his feet, then looked over him top to bottom with an appraising eye. He waited impatiently for her to finish.

"And you're sure you didn't hit your head on the way down?" she asked him at last. He nodded. "Let me help you walk upstairs to your room. I assume that's where you were going?"

"I don't need help," he said. "I can manage myself. I'mfine."

"Let's go," she said, completely ignoring his statement. "Boys, go finish your lunch."

As he walked, he couldn't help but limp. His ankle hurt much worse than it had before he'd fallen and he really hoped he hadn't injured it worse. Mrs Hudson noted his limp, but she didn't say anything as they walked.

Up in his room was a different matter. She helped him sit down on his bed, but instead of making to leave as he'd hoped she would, she sat down on the end of his bed and looked at him. He refused to look back, instead eyeing his still unpacked duffle bag, which sat on the floor a few feet from the foot of the bed.

"How are you, Sherlock? Don't say you're fine. We can tell you aren't. John is worried about you," she said. He made no reply.

"Is there anything you want to talk about? Or anything we can do to help you get settled in?" she asked. He shrugged; there was nothing he wanted to tell her.

"All right, if you're sure. Let me have a look at that ankle then."

"It's the right one," he said. She raised a brow.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he muttered.

"I'll look at both of them, then," she said.

"The other one is fine," he said. She nodded.

"Then it won't hurt to have it looked over, will it?" He sighed. He knew the game was up.

"Let me take my socks off myself," he said. He took the right off first, revealing his perfectly fine ankle. She nodded. The left one was not so nice looking. Swollen and blue, it was stretching out the wrappings it was in, and the bruising looked terrible. He bit his lip.

"Oh, Sherlock. That's definitely at least a bad sprain. How long has it been since you bandaged it like that?" she asked, a note of worry in her voice.

"A couple hours," he muttered, again refusing to look her in the eye.

"It's cutting off circulation to your foot, dear. I'm going to take it off. Also, I assume you wrapped it yourself?" He nodded. "This is gauze, not a bandage. You see how thin it is?" He made no reply. "How did this happen?" He shrugged. "I need to know," she told him.

"I..." he started, trailing off, then with a sudden burst of defiant anger, both with her and with himself, "I leapt off the balcony. I was trying to reach that tree, but I missed." She didn't even answer him, only turned his foot over with her hands and examined it closely.

"We're going to have to take this to the doctor," she said absentmindedly, more to herself than to him. He scowled harder.


	6. Chapter 6

The doctor told them that Sherlock's ankle was only sprained. It was a bad sprain, yes, but it wasn't broken, for which Sherlock was glad. He was supposed to take it easy, whatever that meant, for at least a month, though. John was sadder about that than Sherlock was. "I guess this means we'll have to hold off on our tree fort, then," he said. Sherlock didn't reply, only stared out the window; he still wasn't speaking to John. John turned to look out his window, hurt.

When they got back to the Hudsons' house (Sherlock would never think of it as 'home'), Rob and Charlie ran up to greet them, both holding a handful of markers.

"Can I draw on your cast?" shouted Charlie before Sherlock had even climbed out of the car.

"He didn't get a cast," John told them. "He only sprained it. He got it all wrapped up, though, look!" They looked. The bandage was a beckoning white.

"I could draw on your wrap," Charlie offered. "I could draw something cool on it for you so it's not that boring old white."

"You could draw a dinosaur," said Rob. "Dinosaurs are cool."

"Yeah, but he might not like dinosaurs," said Charlie.

"Ask him," said Rob.

"You ask him," said Charlie.

"No, you ask him."

"You do it."

"You do it."

"I'll do it," said John, and they both looked at him in surprise. "Sherlock, do you like dinosaurs?" Sherlock didn't answer him, only pushed past the lot and walked upstairs. Charlie stuck out his tongue at him behind his back.

"Why's he so grumpy?" he asked.

"It's 'cause he doesn't have a cast to draw on," said Rob.


	7. Not-Chapter

Okay, I've pretty much given up on the whole Mrs. Hudson is the foster parent thing. She gets to be a little more OOC with every chapter and by tomorrow's chapter, she just isn't Mrs. Hudson any more. I'm going to just change her name, this character. She's an OC. Sorry about the inconvenience!

And yes I'll be deleting this chapter later since it's more of an A/N than a chapter by far.


	8. Chapter 7

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in his room with the door shut and latched. He didn't come out until breakfast the next morning, and when Rob came to tell him dinner was ready, he threw a pillow at the door as it was opening.

In the morning, though, he could smell breakfast all the way from downstairs and hear bacon frying, and that was something he just could not resist. He headed down the stairs and was about to turn into the kitchen when he heard his name mentioned. He didn't make out quite what was being said in the surrounding times, but he sat down on the bottom stair to hear who was talking about him.

Mrs. Hudson was talking on the phone, it sounded like. He could hear almost the whole of what she was saying if he just listened closely...

"They're doing very well. John especially is getting along well with Rob and Charlie, my other two, and Mycroft is settling in pretty well. He seems to have found someone to look up to in Michael... yes, he told me he wants to work in the government, and Michael is interning with the state senator this school year, at least up until the new year. He's only a few years Mycroft's senior. ...Oh, I suppose so. They're both settling in quite nicely. Sherlock is another matter, though. I'm worried about him. He doesn't really interact with the other children at all... refuses to talk to them. He's angry at John now, I don't know why, but... I know. What really worries me is this.

"He has a balcony in his room, thought he might like it, but he jumped off of it the other day. ...Oh, no, nothing like that! And it's just a sprain. He said he was trying to jump to a tree that's near the balcony... I know. We'll give it time. It's only been a few days... I'm just beginning to wonder if he needs another family. He might not be a good fit..."

Sherlock had heard enough. Angry tears were burning his eyes, no matter how much he wanted them gone, and he wanted to stomp and storm and rage... but he just turned around and walked back upstairs. If they wanted to give him away, that was fine. She had said it herself, he had never fit in with this family anyways. See if he cared.

Except, this would mean they would be split up. He and Mycroft and John, they wouldn't be together, they'd be at some stranger's home alone... and he couldn't do anything about it.

Mycroft was 15 now. In less than three years, he'd be an adult, and allowed to adopt them. That had never seemed farther away than it did now.

He clenched his teeth. He wanted to break something, to destroy and smash it into little bits so small they could never be fixed. He was absolutely full of anger.

He stormed down rhe stairs, not caring who heard him and who he woke up, slammed out the door, and around to the back. Behind the house was a wood. It wasn't a large wood, but it was big enough to serve his purpose. He stomped into it as far as he could without killing his ankle, which was screaming with every stomp he stepped, then screwed up his face and screamed. All the frustration he'd felt since his parents had disappeared, all of the anger he had felt while he'd been in the foster system moving from place to place with people who just didn't care, all of the terrified betrayal he'd felt with John, all of it came out with his yell. He yelled as loudly and as long as he wanted, and then, suddenly tired, sat down on the ground.

He just wanted it to be over. He just wanted to be back home with his mom and his dad and his brothers, to go back to his own school where maybe everyone hated him but at least it was familiar and safe, and to go back to where he'd been six months ago. There had been fighting and yelling and frustration then too, but it had been home. It had been with his family. It had been ihome./i

He heard a rustle of leaves and sticks being pushed away behind him and suddenly Mrs. Hudson was there. She didn't say anything, but she picked him up off the ground and wrapped her arms around him tightly. He struggled for a moment, but then he couldn't struggle any more and he relaxed into her hug. He couldn't fight any more.

He took in a shuddering breath, sobbed once, and then he stopped. He couldn't fight any more. ...and maybe it wasn't that bad. He hadn't had a hug from anyone but John in months and months. Maybe it wasn't all bad.

Mrs Hudson carried him all the way back to the house, even though he was all of twelve years old and much too big to be carried, especially that far, but she carried him all the way there and into the house and into the living room, where she set him down on the couch. She didn't let go of him even then, just sat down besides him.

And eventually, eventually, he calmed down.

He calmed down.


	9. Chapter 8

Mrs. Johnston unwrapped her arms from around him after a while, although she didn't move away. Sherlock stiffened, waiting for her to scold him for the screaming and the temper tantrum he had essentially thrown, even if it had been by himself in the woods.

Instead, she tipped his chin up with her hand and said "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

He shrugged.

"No, please don't give me that. Something has happened. I know you don't know me very well, but please talk to me. I want to help, sweetheart. What's wrong?" she asked, a note of pleading in her voice. He almost answered her, almost told her, but when he remembered what she had said, about wanting to get rid of him and... and split up him and John and Mycroft... he couldn't do it. So he shrugged again, pulling away from her. She looked hurt, but she didn't press the subject and she didn't move towards him.

Suddenly, she had an epiphany.

"You didn't overhear my phone conversation, did you?" she asked. Slowly, he nodded, picking at fuzz on the couch they sat on. "What did you hear?"

"I... heard you say that... you didn't think this was the place for me. And that, that John and Mycroft could stay but I should go... and you told her about my ankle and you said I wasn't settling in well... you said you didn't want me," he muttered, refusing to look at her. She bit her lip.

"Sherlock... I did say that I was worried that this wouldn't be the placement for you, and I said that you weren't settling in well, but I never said I didn't want you. I never said you should go." She sighed, paused a moment to organise her thoughts, then continued.

"What I meant when I said those things was that you didn't seem to be happy here. You don't want to interact with any of my kids, and you're even mad at John and Mycroft. I cam tell you two are close, but you're not even getting along with him. You don't don't seem to want to be here, Sherlock, and I thought maybe you needed something that no matter how I tried I can't give you. You don't trust me, I know... but it's not that I don't want you. I do. I want you to be happy."

He didn't reply to her words, only sat in silence and considered what she had said.

After a moment, she spoke, one more time.

"Give me a chance. Give it some time before you decide you don't like us, okay? Cassidy, my daughter, she's getting home from camp tomorrow, and I want you to give her a chance before you decide about us, okay?"

He bit the inside of his cheek; then slowly, slowly, he nodded. She grinned, obviously very pleased, reached out to grab him into a hug, then froze, unsure if that was too much. Sherlock wasn't sure himself, but his policy was better safe than sorry, so he stood up and went into the bathroom to wash his face and hands for breakfast.


	10. Chapter 9

The next morning, John came in to wake him up. He was tentative at first, remembering how angry Sherlock had been a few days ago, but he had to get louder and louder in his calling Sherlock's name when Sherlock stubbornly refused to wake up. Finally he crept over to Sherlock's bed and ever so carefully he poked him in the side.

Sherlock sat straight up, startling John, who leapt backwards so quickly he nearly fell over. John scrunched his face up, waiting for Sherlock to start yelling, but instead he heard... laughter? Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He hadn't heard Sherlock laugh since... it had been a long time.

"Um... it's time to wake up," he said.

"Obviously," Sherlock told him, sobering quickly. "What time is it?"

"It's 8:30. Breakfast is downstairs if you want it, but Mom- Mrs. Johnston says if you want it, you had better come and get it now, since she has to leave in forty-five minutes and everything will be cleaned up long before that," John answered. He was still somewhat antsy, but Sherlock seemed almost happy this morning... which could be good or bad. He would watch and see.

"Where's she going?" Sherlock demanded.

"I think she's picking Cassidy up. That's her real daughter," said John. "She's been at camp all summer."

"I know," Sherlock said, somewhat impatient. That seemed more like the Sherlock that John was used to,and he relaxed a tad. "You know, I've been awake since before you came in." John nodded. "What's for breakfast?"

"Egg sandwich thingies. They smell really good, except it's too bad for Mycroft since he's allergic. All he gets is oatmeal." John wrinkled his nose. Oatmeal was, as everyone knew, the most boring and tasteless food in existence, and made for a horrible breakfast.

"I'm coming down in a minute, then," Sherlock said. As soon as John left the room, grinning in a horribly perky way, he frowned. He couldn't do this. He couldn't be this - happy. Normal Sherlock would have to be enough.

He changed out of pajamas as slowly as possible, stalling until he'd have to go downstairs and see everyone. He could only take so long, though, and finally he was done. He headed downstairs.

Everyone else was already around the table when he arrived. Mycroft had a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Sherlock could see that it was full of milk and sugar and some sort of fruit - it looked like blueberries, but Sherlock couldn't quite tell. No one else had food yet, though. Michael was at the stove, scrambling eggs in a giant frying pan, and Rob and Charlie were sitting next to each other around the table. Rob looked alert and wide awake, but Charlie looked like he could fall back asleep at any moment. His head was in his hands, elbows resting on the table to prop himself up, and his eyes were open - but only barely.

Mrs Johnston was sitting at the head of the table, talking animatedly to John about something. She didn't even notice that Sherlock had walked in until he sat down next to Mycroft.

"Good morning, glory!" she said. He made no answer, only nodding his head in reply. It wasn't that good of a morning. "Did you sleep well last night?" she asked him. He nodded again. Why was she so intent on making conversation? Fortunately, she turned back to John.

"Polite, aren't you?" observed Mycroft.

"Oh, shut up," muttered Sherlock.

"Have you and John made up yet?" asked Mycroft. Sherlock turned to look at him, a vicious glare on his features.

"None of your business, iMikey,"/i he said. Mycroft went back to his oatmeal. It was bland and horrible, just like Mycroft, he thought viciously. Why couldn't he just mind his own business?

A few minutes later, the eggs were all finished cooking. There was a sort of buffet set out on the counter, with cheese and little cubes of ham and tortillas, which presumably he was intended to wrap his eggs in. He waited a moment to see what everyone would do.

Suddenly there was a rush as all of the little kids, John included, jumped up and leapt for the best place in line along the counter. Michael was at the front, of course, since he made the food, but there was a good deal of shoving and fighting for the second place in line. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was obvious that there was more than enough food for everyone and there were only a few people in the house - the wait wouldn't be that long. It was ridiculous, really.

Sherlock ended up in the back of the line, waiting until everyone but Mycroft was there to stand up. By the time he got there, most of the food was gone, although there was just enough for him. He put a little on his plate, just enough that no one would ask questions, then sat down to eat.

When she had finished eating, Mrs Johnston checked her watch and said "All right, I have to be going. Behave yourselves! Michael is in charge. I'll be back in an hour and a half with Cass. See you later, and /ibe good!"/i Rob stood up and gave her a hug, then Charlie and John, and finally Michael. Even Mycroft nodded his head in acknowledgement of her leaving.

Right before she walked out of the kitchen she turned, remembering something.

"Sherlock, do you want to come with me? We can have a little one on one time," she said. He considered it for a moment. It would be an hour and a half, which could turn out to be quite a long time, but it might be good... but then he remembered Cassidy would be with them on the way back, and he shook his head.

"I'll go with you!" shouted Charlie.

"Me too!" said Rob. Even John looked hopeful. She shook her head at all of them, however.

"I need you guys to stay her and get ready for Cassidy to get home. You can tell John and Sherlock and Mycroft all about her - they've never met her," she reminded them. They looked disappointed. "See you later, she called, and the goodbyes started all over again. Finally, she extricated herself from the littles and was off.

John and Charlie, who had finished their food, got up and were heading into the family room until Michael called them back and reminded them of cleanup. They cleared their plates and put them in the dishwasher, then put the frying pans and spatulas in the sink and ran water over those.

Now Rob had finished. He put his plate up and joined them, grabbing a dishrag and wiping down the counters. Mycroft joined in and scrubbed the pans while Sherlock watched.

"Don't think you'll get off this lightly tomorrow, Sherlock," said Michael with a grin. "The only reason you and me are clean-up free is because I made breakfast and this is the first time you've had breakfast with us." Sherlock nodded. He put his own plate up, then, and went upstairs.


	11. Chapter 10

Sherlock decided to take the opportunity to explore a little bit around the house and yard, which he hadn't done yet. He'd been here four days and really the only part of the property he'd seen was a little bit of the woods and most of the house. He didn't even know where Mycroft's room was.

The first thing he examined was the house. He stuck his head inside every door of the house, exploring some in a little more depth but mostly just looking to see what was in each one. He found Mycroft's room, and Mycroft, who was in Mycroft's room, writing up something or other that looked extremely boring. Sherlock left him; it didn't seem very interesting to watch him just scribble away on his paper.

After thoroughly examining every room in the house, he branched out and went outside. The front yard, like he had seen when he had first arrived, was large, flat, and empty except for one rather tall magnolia tree with a tire swing hanging off of it. John and Rob and Charlie were all up in the tree, being generally extremely busy with what they were doing, which involved a lot of yelling, whatever it was. Sherlock felt a pang of jealousy as he circled round the house into the back.

The backyard was a hill going down from the house and getting fairly steep before it leveled off. It would be good for sledding in the winter, Sherlock thought, if there were sleds somewhere about. There was a little patio with a couple of chairs on it by the back door, and here he found Michael, sitting and reading in the sun. He called hello to Sherlock, and Sherlock waved a hand in reply, but he made no effort to continue the conversation, going back to whatever he was reading and leaving Sherlock to go back to his activity.

Behind the backyard were the woods Sherlock had run into the day before, which were larger than he had previously noticed. They got thicker and thicker as they moved further away from the house, which was no surprise, quickly becoming dark, dense, and impenetrable by eye. This he found interesting.

He walked back and forth along the edge a couple of times before he found a spot he thought was good to enter without being caught up too much by branches and bushes. It was the same place he'd entered before, and he could see the marks of his passage: bent and broken branches, snapped sticks on the ground, a little bit of thread where a thorn had caught his clothes. He guessed the little kids didn't much go into the woods, or maybe they weren't allowed, because he didn't see many other places where they might have come through.

He went far enough into the woods where no one could see him if he stood still, although he could make out other people. There was a stump right where he wanted to sit, and while he could tell it had been dead for a long time, it was in the perfect spot to observe without being observed.

Not that there was anything to observe, really, but it was the principle of the thing. And besides, this was a good spot to sit and read, too.

He had seen bookshelves and bookshelves of books in the living room, every kind of book, probably. He wondered if he could read those. Michael was still sitting reading on the patio; he went to ask him.

"Absolutely. Just put whatever book you choose back when you're finished with it," he told Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned, then blushed, embarrassed. Blushing only made his embarrassment worse, unfortunately, so he muttered a thank you and went inside to choose a book to read for the next hour or so.


	12. Chapter 11

Sorry about the late update, guys - I started this chapter, but I never finished it. I got busy and then I lost my 'writer's inertia...' I'll try to be more regular now. Hope you like this chapter. It's nice and long, sort of as an apology, lol.

###

Mrs Johnston, with Cassidy right behind her, got back home an hour later, almost right after Sherlock had finished his book. It was excellent timing.

When they pulled into the driveway, Mrs Johnston honked her horn, an obvious summons. It worked, too; Sherlock could hear everyone shouting all the way from behind the house in the woods, where he'd been reading. He was pretty sure that everyone was out front, now, except him.

He waited until they had gone inside, then he snuck around the house to the front door and went in as quietly as he could. It sounded like everyone was in the family room. Shoot. So were the stairs. He'd have to go the long way, all the way around the house.

He peered into the family room from the kitchen. They were sitting on the couches, all their attention on Cassidy, who was telling some story. Suddenly everyone laughed; a funny story, then.

Cassidy was a short, heavy, black girl with long curly hair held back by a bright red hairband. It wasn't doing a very good job of holding her hair back. There was a lot of it, and it kept spilling over to her face. She brushed it away almost absent-mindedly, obviously used to it doing that. She was grinning, a broad grin that took up her whole face and made her look like she was absolutely overjoyed with the world at large.

She looked nice.

Sherlock immediately didn't trust her.

He knew her type. They seemed nice, friendly, excited to be your foster sibling - for about ten minutes. Then they forgot about you, went somewhere and 'forgot' to invite you along, never spoke to you at school like they didn't know you - he knew her type.

As quietly and unobtrusively as he could, he slipped up the stairs and hoped no one would notice him during his very brief cameo in the family room. He had almost made it - only a few steps left - then he was safe upstairs where they couldn't see him. Into his room he went, shut the door, and went to pick up his chemistry book, only then realizing that he still had the book he'd borrowed from the shelves downstairs. He'd have to take it back down later, maybe tonight when everyone was in bed and no one would see him.

His ankle twinged just then; he ignored it, as he had all day.

Lunch was late. Sherlock wasn't called down until one o'clock. And, queerly enough, instead of sending someone else up to tell him it was time to eat, Mrs Hudson came up herself.

"Lunch is ready, Sherlock, and we need to talk real quick," she said, sitting down on the end of his bed. "I want you to come down for lunch and say hi to Cassy. You don't have to make conversation or linger over the meal or anything, but I want you to say hi and be polite. Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, somewhat less than excited at her edict. Still, he had made a promise to at least try... even if that meant giving everyone a chance.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Mrs Johnston said warmly, obviously relieved. She leaned over to him and wrapped him in a hug; Sherlock didn't wriggle away, which was all he could do at the moment. Finally she let go of them and they headed downstairs to eat.

Sherlock waited a minute after she had gone into the kitchen to enter, then, while everyone else was busy, he slipped in and sat down by Mycroft, thinking himself unnoticed. He was wrong.

As soon as he had sat down, Cassidy turned to look at him and said "Hi, you must be Sherlock! I'm Cass. It's great to meet you!" He nodded politely.

"It's nice to meet you too," he said. Then, thinking he could show them all that he was in fact trying, he said "How was camp?" She grinned, obviously pleased he had asked.

"It was great! That was my first time at a proper summer camp, one that lasted more than a week long, so I was really worried at first - what if I got homesick? What if the showers were really gross? But it was really great. We did a lot of fun stuff. How's your summer going?" she said, turning the conversation to him. Sherlock had not been prepared for this. He hadn't expected her to ask him anything. He had supposed that she would be perfectly content to talk about herself. He scrambled for an answer that would be ambiguous and flip the question back on her.

"It's been fine. I've never been to camp before, what's it like?" he asked. Inside his head, he smirked, pleased with himself. That would keep her occupied.

"Honestly, I couldn't tell you," she said. "I've only ever been to girl's camps, and Michael says that his camp experience was always really different from mine. He went to Boy Scout camp, though, and I only went to camp camp, so Boy Scout and Girl Scout camp might be really similar, I don't know. Hey Michael!" she called. He turned to look at her. He had been on the other side of the room helping Mycroft and Mrs Johnston make what seemed to Sherlock to be a ridiculous amount of sandwiches.

"Hey, Cassidy!" he called back.

"Sherlock says he's never been to camp, not Boy Scout camp or anything. What's it like? How is it different from a girl's camp?" she asked.

"Well, for one thing, there are no girls at Boy Scout camp," he said. She laughed.

"No duh. That's not what I mean."

"I know," he chuckled, and began telling Sherlock and Cassidy what had to have been every single detail about every camp he'd ever been to in his life. Sherlock thought he must have talked for fifteen minutes. This was Cassidy's doing, he knew. He thought he had control of the conversation, but she had managed to turn everything he'd said around and back to him in some way. And he was supposed to live with her.

After lunch, Sherlock stood up from the table to put his plate and glass away. Before he could do it, though, he felt someone grab his arm and pull him back into his chair.

"Here, let me get that for you," offered Cassidy, who was now finished with her own lunch. She picked up all of their dishes, as well as Charlie's and Mycroft's, and took them over to the sink. While she was distracted, Sherlock tried to make his escape upstairs, only to have her corner him just before he was about to climb the staircase.

"Are you going to go get something? I heard about what happened to your ankle and I know you're supposed to take it easy. I can get it for you, if you'd like," she said. Sherlock gritted his teeth. What was she playing at? He didn't want her to go through his things.

"I can get it myself, but thank you," he told her.

"Here, let me help you walk upstairs, then. I can see you're limping and I bet your ankle is killing you." She grabbed his arm and pulled it over her shoulders, walking him upstairs as though he were a toddler. When they got to the top, Sherlock shrugged his arm off her shoulder and said "I can walk the rest of the way myself, thank you very much."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Are you intending to go back downstairs? I can help you down if you want." Sherlock had had enough.

"Just leave me alone! I can do it myself, I don't need your pity!" He spat the last word out with enough force to finally, finally get his message across. She looked hurt. Good. Maybe she would let him be in peace now, he thought, ignoring the twinge of remorse he felt at yelling at her.

"Well, if you're sure-"

"I'm sure!" he said, stormed into his room, and slammed the door. He had been good and loud, too. It was satisfying, but if Mrs Johnston hadn't heard his shouting before, she had certianly heard the door slam now. He was in for it.

Well, at least he was alone.


	13. Chapter 12

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in his bedroom, waiting for Mrs. Johnston to come upstairs and yell at him for failing miserably and in the worst and loudest way at getting along and being polite to Cassidy, but he was waiting for something that never came. As a result, he spent the afternoon doing essentially nothing. He could reread his chemistry book or the book he'd borrowed from the living room, he supposed, but when he thought about the dozens of books downstairs that he had never read and that were completely open to be read, he couldn't bring himself to read something he had already read before.

He did spend a little while cleaning out his mind palace. He hadn't tidied it up in a while and there was all sorts of information in there that he didn't need and would probably never care to know about again. He updated some things and he made a room for /this/ foster home, which took the longest out of all the things he did. He had made a room for every foster home he'd been subject to. He supposed he probably should delete some of them - there were some things that he really never wanted to relive - but for now, putting a lock on the doors of the worst ones would be enough.

When he left his mind palace, it was nearly five o'clock. They had eaten a late lunch, but still - three hours! Dinner would be soon.

Briefly Sherlock considered not going down for dinner - he'd eaten almost every meal they'd had in the four days since he'd arrived - but he had already done enough to ruin his stay here. He would go down.

John came up to fetch him for dinner at 5:32 precisely. He was as tentative as he had been the other day now - Sherlock's mood swings were too unpredictable for him to act otherwise. Sticking his head in the room, he said "Um, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" asked Sherlock, although he knew precisely what

John wanted.

"Well, it's just that dinner will be ready soon. It will be really good - you should come down. I helped make some of it," John told him with a hint of pride at what he'd done.

"Okay," said Sherlock lazily.

"Are you coming down, then?" John asked him.

"Oh... why not. I'll be down in just a minute," said Sherlock. When John left, Sherlock could hear him running down the stairs, stomping loudly. John had never been light on his feet.

He sighed, knowing he had to follow. Down to Hell, then.

Unfortunately, Sherlock went down too soon. There were only two people in the kitchen, John having been sent to fetch everyone else - Mrs Johnston and Cassidy. Because there were only two people, there wasn't the nice hubbub that Sherlock had used to slip into the kitchen unnoticed before. As soon as he stepped off of the stairs, they knew he was there, and there was no going back.

Excellent.

"Hi, Sherlock," said Cassidy amicably, seemingly having forgotten their altercation of a few hours previously. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. There was no way she had just forgotten his shouting at her and everything.

"Hi," he replied, on his guard. He sat down on the opposite side of the table from where Cassidy sat; she didn't miss the gesture, but she made no comment.

Just then, Mycroft came in. He sat down in between the two, a seat away from Sherlock. He didn't say anything to him. Apparently Sherlock's retort that morning was still too fresh in his mind. Well, he'd forget eventually.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Enchilada casserole and green beans with bacon," said Mrs Johnston.

"That sounds delicious," said Mycroft, smiling politely. What a suck-up. Sherlock knew for a fact that Mycroft hated casseroles of all kinds. "Can I help at all in preparing it?" he asked.

"Oh, I've got this, and it will be ready as soon as everyone is here, but thanks for asking!" said Mrs Johnston, obviously pleased. A moment later, as if replying to her call, Michael, John, Rob, and Charlie all came into the kitchen and sat down around the table. "Speak of the devil," she said. "Let's eat."

Sherlock ate as quickly as he could, which was rather fast. He hadn't gotten very much on his plate, anticipating some strange, crusty nastiness, and had been surprised to find that the casserole was really delicious. However, his desire to go back upstairs was stronger than his desire to eat more enchilada casserole, so he was the first person to be finished. He made to leave the table, but he was stopped by Michael's voice -

"Don't forget, you'll have to help clean up when everyone's finished eating!" He said it in a light tone of voice, but the words made Sherlock groan inside. He had forgotten about the after-dinner clean up. And it didn't look like everyone else would finish even half as quickly as he had.

"I'll wait in the living room, then," he said, and he was relieved when Michael turned back to his meal and to the conversation he had begun with Mycroft about ambitions and internships and the government and dull nonsense like that.

With little else to do, Sherlock walked over to the bookcases on the walls and read a few titles. He had already read a number of these books - his father had owned a small library of books and they had gone to the library at least once a week - but there were enough to intrigue him, and there was at least a week's worth of reading on these shelves, maybe even a few weeks.

One title in particular caught his eye, called The Disappearing Spoon. He pulled it off the shelf to see what it was about. It seemed to be some sort of chemistry book, stories and facts about each of the elements in the periodic table. It seemed interesting enough; he pulled it off the shelf and sat down to begin reading it.

He had only made it through the second chapter when his name was called to come and clean up. He sighed, made a note of the page he was on, and set the book on the stairs to be brought up when he headed up there. He wished he'd examined those bookshelves before - there were more than a few good-looking books that he could have read over the last four days.

In the kitchen, the table had been cleared off and the plates were now being rinsed and put in the sink, the counters were being wiped, and the stoneware casserole dish that the enchilada had been cooked in was being scrubbed out. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, so he lingered in the doorframe for a moment.

"Here, Sherlock, come and take this rag and wipe off the table, would you? You can just wipe everything nto the floor. I'm about to sweep it as soon as everyone leaves," Micahel told him. Sherlock took the proffered dishrag and began wiping off the table. It didn't take long. When he was finished, he put the rag back and turned to go upstairs, but Michael stopped him again and said "One last thing, Sherlock. Come here for a moment so we can talk." By now, the only people in the kitchen were Michael and Sherlock; everyone else had finished what they were doing and had left.

"Why are you having trouble settling in? How can we make it easier for you?" Michael asked him. Sherlock shrugged, uncomfortable. He would have rather cleaned up the whole kitchen by himself than be asked such a question and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to answer.

"Can I ask kind of a personal question?" Michael continued.

"Sure," Sherlock said. Didn't mean he would answer.

"Does it have something to do with the fact that you seem to be one-sidedly feuding with your brothers?" Sherlock shrugged, looking away.

"What are you mad at them about?" Michael asked. By now, Sherlock wished he were anywhere else then here. He would have even rather been at the last foster home they'd been in... and that was one of his locked doors. He could feel himself turning bright red.

"Nothing," he muttered. Michael bit his lip, then pulled up a chair, indicating that Sherlock should do the same.

"No, I know it's something. I won't tell them, if that's why you don't want to trust me. I won't bug you about it anymore if you don't want me to after this either, I swear," he said, completely serious. Briefly, Sherlock debated whether or not to tell him... well, what could it hurt? He'd probably be out of here soon anyways.

"Mycroft was the one who brought the police to us after our parents... well... we could have been fine. He's almost an adult, and we could have both gotten jobs. He didn't need to do that," Sherlock said in a flat, emotionless voice. His hands clenched the end of his chair tightly. He almost felt like he could drift away from reality if he let go or if he showed how he felt on his face, or even if he looked Michael in the eye. "We would have been fine."

Michael was quiet for a minute or two, and Sherlock couldn't tell what he was thinking. Eventually, he spoke.

"And John?"

Sherlock couldn't answer this one. He knew it wouldn't go over well to say 'he has fun with you people without me.' He had already made things bad enough. He shrugged. Fortunately, Michael seemed to realize that he had pushed Sherlock enough for the time being. He nodded once or twice, then all of a sudden pulled Sherlock into a hug - what was it with these people and hugging? This was the second time in as many days that this had happened. Sherlock tolerated it for a few moments, then he pulled away.

"Okay, you can go now, if you want. Thanks for... thanks for talking to me," Michael said. Sherlock didn't reply. He almost wanted to, he almost wanted to say something back - he felt odd.

He nearly ran upstairs, going as fast as his ankle would let him. Uptairs, he knew, was safe - he had a door to shut and a lock to lock and no one could bother him if he didn't want them to.

Except, he almost wished Michael would follow him.

Almost.


	14. Chapter 13

Sherlock read the whole book that evening, staying up until midnight reading it. The next morning, he went downstairs to find another book to read, thinking of the comfortable stump in the woods. He found one he liked - it was called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, about a woman whose cells had been stolen and used to revolutionize science without her knowing - then headed outside to read.

He tromped all the way into the woods, reading as he walked. In consequence, he didn't realize until he was all the way there that there was already someone on his stump.

Cassidy was reading the first book he'd read a few days ago. She didn't notice him for several awkward seconds as he stood there, unsure of what to do. When she did look up, he had turned around and was walking away to go find somewhere else to read.

"Hey - Sherlock!" she called. He turned back around to look at her. "Did you want to read here?"

"It's okay," he said. "You were here first."

"No, it's no problem, I was just about to leave anyways, as soon as I finished this chapter. Honestly, I'd much rather sprawl out on the couch to read right now," she told him, getting up and walking over to where he was standing. "What are you reading?"

In answer, he held up his book for her to see.

"Oh, that's a good one. Have you read it before?" she asked him. He shook his head. "It's really interesting. It has all of the important science-y stuff, but it's also kind of a moral debate through the whole book - that's a terrible description, but you'll see what I mean. Tell me what you think of it when you finish!" He stared at her in disbelief. Why on earth was she still talking to him? After yesterday afternoon, he would have thought that she would be mad, but no. She was still completely and terribly friendly.

"All right," she said, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen between him. "I'll leave you to your book. Enjoy it! I'll see you later." And with that, she walked away.

"Cassidy," he called to her suddenly. She turned back towards him.

"Yeah?"

"Well... thanks.." he said, all of a sudden unsure about what he was going to say. For what must have been the thirtieth time in the last few days, he felt his cheeks turn red,and he turned away quickly to cover it up. Why did this keep happening?

He finished the book before lunch started, which was a mercy - he wasn't interrupted at any point. Cassy had been right. It was an interesting book, and it definitely was a debatable subject. It had made for an interesting morning.

When he went back into the house to put it away, he saw Cassidy lying on the couch in the living room where she'd said she'd be. When he came in, she looked up at him, shocked.

"Did you finish it that fast? It's only been two and a half hours!"

"I read fast," Sherlock shrugged. She nodded.

"You definitely do. What did you think of the book?"

"I - it was interesting," he said, put on the spot.

"Did you think that the author did a good job of staying unbiased while she wrote the book? That's an important thing when you write about stuff like this," she said.

"Well, I don't know... it kind of felt like it was slanted towards the Lacks family. it was definitely sympathetic to them..." he said, trailing off.

"Yeah, I think she did an okay job, and she definitely presented both sides well, but I don't know... it definitely felt slanted to me. What did you think of how she wrote it?" Cassidy asked.

"I didn't really - I didn't like her writing style much," he said, shocked himself at how much he was talking. "I felt like it was too much narrative, and not enough a presentation of the relevant facts. I would have liked it better if it weren't so much a story."

"Oh, really? I thought that writing it like a story made it all the more interesting. It gave it kind of a more human side than if it had been purely facts and evidence," she said.

"Yeah, but you can't form an opinion based on emotion. You have to base it off of facts," he said, fired up. "Otherwise it's incomplete and completely a waste of time to even have that opinion."

"Well, you're right there. But you have to take into consideration that it was made to be sold - if it was just a facts list, no one would buy it," she replied. "It was kind of a novel, don't you think?"

Just as she finished speaking, Mrs Johnston walked in to the living room. She was just passing through, and she didn't say anything, only glancing from Sherlock to Cassidy and grinning. Sherlock realized suddenly how much he'd said and how much he'd revealed about himself, and, flustered, excused himself from the room.

Cassidy grinned, turning back to her book. Sherlock read the whole book that evening, staying up until midnight reading it. The next morning, he went downstairs to find another book to read, thinking of the comfortable stump in the woods. He found one he liked - it was called The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, about a woman whose cells had been stolen and used to revolutionize science without her knowing - then headed outside to read.

He tromped all the way into the woods, reading as he walked. In consequence, he didn't realize until he was all the way there that there was already someone on his stump.

Cassidy was reading the first book he'd read a few days ago. She didn't notice him for several awkward seconds as he stood there, unsure of what to do. When she did look up, he had turned around and was walking away to go find somewhere else to read.

"Hey - Sherlock!" she called. He turned back around to look at her. "Did you want to read here?"

"It's okay," he said. "You were here first."

"No, it's no problem, I was just about to leave anyways, as soon as I finished this chapter. Honestly, I'd much rather sprawl out on the couch to read right now," she told him, getting up and walking over to where he was standing. "What are you reading?"

In answer, he held up his book for her to see.

"Oh, that's a good one. Have you read it before?" she asked him. He shook his head. "It's really interesting. It has all of the important science-y stuff, but it's also kind of a moral debate through the whole book - that's a terrible description, but you'll see what I mean. Tell me what you think of it when you finish!" He stared at her in disbelief. Why on earth was she still talking to him? After yesterday afternoon, he would have thought that she would be mad, but no. She was still completely and terribly friendly.

"All right," she said, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen between him. "I'll leave you to your book. Enjoy it! I'll see you later." And with that, she walked away.

"Cassidy," he called to her suddenly. She turned back towards him.

"Yeah?"

"Well... thanks.." he said, all of a sudden unsure about what he was going to say. For what must have been the thirtieth time in the last few days, he felt his cheeks turn red,and he turned away quickly to cover it up. Why did this keep happening?

He finished the book before lunch started, which was a mercy - he wasn't interrupted at any point. Cassy had been right. It was an interesting book, and it definitely was a debatable subject. It had made for an interesting morning.

When he went back into the house to put it away, he saw Cassidy lying on the couch in the living room where she'd said she'd be. When he came in, she looked up at him, shocked.

"Did you finish it that fast? It's only been two and a half hours!"

"I read fast," Sherlock shrugged. She nodded.

"You definitely do. What did you think of the book?"

"I - it was interesting," he said, put on the spot.

"Did you think that the author did a good job of staying unbiased while she wrote the book? That's an important thing when you write about stuff like this," she said.

"Well, I don't know... it kind of felt like it was slanted towards the Lacks family. it was definitely sympathetic to them..." he said, trailing off.

"Yeah, I think she did an okay job, and she definitely presented both sides well, but I don't know... it definitely felt slanted to me. What did you think of how she wrote it?" Cassidy asked.

"I didn't really - I didn't like her writing style much," he said, shocked himself at how much he was talking. "I felt like it was too much narrative, and not enough a presentation of the relevant facts. I would have liked it better if it weren't so much a story."

"Oh, really? I thought that writing it like a story made it all the more interesting. It gave it kind of a more human side than if it had been purely facts and evidence," she said.

"Yeah, but you can't form an opinion based on emotion. You have to base it off of facts," he said, fired up. "Otherwise it's incomplete and completely a waste of time to even have that opinion."

"Well, you're right there. But you have to take into consideration that it was made to be sold - if it was just a facts list, no one would buy it," she replied. "It was kind of a novel, don't you think?"

Just as she finished speaking, Mrs Johnston walked in to the living room. She was just passing through, and she didn't say anything, only glancing from Sherlock to Cassidy and grinning. Sherlock realized suddenly how much he'd said and how much he'd revealed about himself, and, flustered, excused himself from the room.

Cassidy grinned, turning back to her book. _We might just get to him yet._


	15. Chapter 14

Lunch, Michael noticed, was the first meal at least since she'd been home that Sherlock didn't gulp down his food and excuse himself as quickly as possible. Instead, he sat and ate quietly. He didn't say anything if he could help it, and he still didn't eat much, but he didn't bolt - that had to be a good thing.

The next morning around the breakfast table, Mrs Johnston announced they were going to the library. As it turned out, this was a weekly activity - Sherlock couldn't believe he'd only been at the Johnstons' for five days.

They left after breakfast, each person with their own bag for books. Sherlock didn't expect much from the library. They were off in the middle of nowhere, so it was bound to be small and full of old, outdated books. He would be glad of the opportunity to explore and find a new place to add to his memory palace repository, though, and he was looking forwards to that if nothing else.

He was completely and shockingly wrong in his assumption. The library was almost a forty-five minute drive away in the closest city, and while the drive was horrendous (Mrs Johnston's minivan could just barely hold everyone), the place itself was amazing.

It was a huge, sprawling thing, grand and tall, and just as impressive on the inside. Every shelf was jam-packed with books on everything possible, old books and new books and every sort he could imagine. He spent almost an hour there, carefully selecting books to bring home and in the end choosing more than he could carry - he had to put a good deal of them in John and Mycroft's bags, and even then he still almost had too many. In the end, he had checked out 36 books, a mix of fiction and nonfiction, and all of it scientific. More than a few of them had been recommended to him by Cassidy, who he'd learned had excellent taste in reading material.

Sherlock was in heaven, or as close as he could be.

He was allowed to pick one book to read in the car, and, after a moment's thought, chose one of the ones he had been most excited for, a treatise on the history of science in Europe from ancient times up to the present day, or so it said. It was good enough that he managed to become fully engrossed in it, despite being crammed into the car with not nearly enough room between the eight people in it. It became more and more interesting as he read on, and after a few chapters it would have been quite difficult to bring him back to the real world rather than the world of the history of

WHAM

and Sherlock knew no more.

Hey, all, sorry about the long hiatus of the last couple of chapters! School started, and I love it, but the workload is a punch in the face and gets more and more difficult every year :P anyways, read and review, if you don't mind, and I'll try to start updating more consistently.


	16. Chapter 15

He woke up with an uncomfortable feeling in his arm, as though it had fallen asleep. A moment later, that theory was confirmed as he realized he was laying on it. Another moment and he realized he couldn't see.

He panicked for a couple of seconds, suddenly remembering what had happened, as much as he knew - they must have crashed - John! and where had Mycroft been sitting? where had the car been hit? - but he realized the reason he couldn't see was only his hair, matted with blood, was in his eyes. Not that that really calmed him down much, but he could brush it out of his face now and look around to see what had happened.

Next to him in the back seat, John and Charlie were stirring feebly. They looked all right at first glance, so he moved on, sitting up to make sure that he himself was all right.

He had a cut on his forehead from slamming into the hard ridge on the back of the seat in front of him, and his arm was still tingly from where he had been laing sideways on it, but other than that he was all right.

In front of him in the middle seat he could see Cassidy, Rob, and Michael, who was rather pale, but who was also looking around to see if everyone was all right. He said something to Sherlock when he realized he was awake, but Sherlock ignored him, instead looking up to the front two seats where Mycroft and Mrs Johnston had been sitting. He couldn't see Mrs Johnston at all, really, other than the side of her head, which moved as he looked at it, wobbling on her neck as though she was having trouble waking up and controlling it. Mycroft he could see clearly, though.

He was slumped against the right side of the car, seatbelt pulled tight. Sherlock could see blood in his hair, and he wasn't moving, and what if - no, he would stay calm, because John was waking up and he didn't want John to panic either. Which some effort, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and relaxed. Relatively.

And now John was all the way awake, and Sherlock could see his eyes widen as he figured out what had happened. He looked around the car for a moment, then turned back to Sherlock, a worried question written on his face.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I... I think we got into a car crash," Sherlock said.

"Are we gonna die?" Charlie whispered suddenly, and Sherlock knew he wasn't taking it well. Charlie's eyes were wide and panicky, his breaths getting shorter and shorter as the blood drained from his face. Sherlock had to keep him from panicking, so he did what he abhorred at any other time - reached across and grabbed Charlie's hand.

"We'll all be okay. No one is going to die," he told him, squeezing the hand nearest to him. Charlie didn't relax, really, but he did calm down a little. He was still pale, and still breathing faster than he probably should have been, but he was calmer, and he wasn't panicking any more.

"Sherlock?" he heard Michael say just then. "How are you doing? Are you guys okay?" Michael was speaking in a weirdly calm voice.

"Yeah, we're okay, I think," Sherlock said. "I have a cut on my forehead that's bleeding a bit, but it's not too bad, I think. And Charlie is freaking out a little bit. But we're mostly okay. Are you..." He trailed off, not wanting to finish his sentence, because to do so would mean thinking of all the possible injuries, all the bad things that might have happened.

"Cassidy sprained her wrist or something, and Rob bit his tongue really badly, poor guy, but we're pretty much okay other than that," he said.

"That's a lie, Michael, I can tell from here that your nose is broken," said Cassidy. Her voice was thin and strained, but clear.

"That's not important," said Michael.

"Yes it is," she said.

"It isn't. Now hush, I'm having a conversation," he told her, and she grinned, seeming to have gained some strength from their disagreeing somehow.

Mrs Johnston spoke up then. "I'm sorry, guys, but can you be kind of quiet? I have the worst headache right now."

"Sorry, mom," chorused a handful of voices.

"Should we call 911?" asked John after a moment.

"Yeah," Michael said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed.

An ambulance arrived after what felt like forever, but was really just eight minutes. It turned out someone had already called 911, although they hadn't stopped to see if anyone was okay - probably the same person who had hit them. There was a paramedic who helped Mycroft out of the car - it turned out he had a rather bad concussion, although he would be okay eventually.

When John tried to stand up to get out of the car, he screamed and fell back into his seat - a sound that sent a chill all the way down to Sherlock's bones. He didn't think he would ever forget that sound.

John had a badly broken leg. The paramedic didn't tell Sherlock much, but when he was talking to Mrs Johnston Sherlock caught the words 'hospitalized' and 'a few weeks at least.'

He didn't remember much after that.


	17. Chapter 16

The hospital was white and bright and very busy, or at least the parts Sherlock saw were. It wasn't his first time in in the emergency room, of course, but it was the first time he'd been to the emergency room forJohn, and that was worse than going for himself. If it would have fixed John's leg, he would've broken his own - but that wasn't a possibility. Really, there weren't any possibilities at all - nothing Sherlock could do but sit and wait, and he hated it. Every minute they took to look at his head and make sure he didn't have a concussion and all of that nonsense was a minute that he could have spent finding John and Mycroft and making sure they would be okay, or something - anything but just sit there and wait for them to finish with his head. He almost couldn't stand the waiting, nearly leapt up several times, but it wouldn't have done any good. He'd still have to get the doctor to tell him where they were, and the doctor wouldn't tell him until she was finished.

Finally she was done, and he stood up quickly and impatiently.

"Where are my brothers at?" he demanded.

"They came in with you, right?" she said. "Which kids are your brothers?"

"The tall, corpulent one, and the

blond one with the broken leg," he said.

"What are their names?" she asked him. "I can find out for you." Obviously, Sherlock thought, ever more impatient, or I wouldn't have asked you.

"Mycroft and John Holmes, that's M-Y-C-R-O-F-T if you don't know how to spell it, which I imagine you don't," he said.

"All right, I'll tell you as soon as I can," she said. "Until then, come with me. Your mother is in that room and you can stay with her -"

"She's not my mother," Sherlock interrupted sharply. "She's just taking care of me. She isn't my mother."

"Oh, do you know your mother's phone number then? We need to give her a call and let her know you were in an accident," she said.

"She's - not here," he bit off somewhat jerkily. "Mrs Johnston is - my foster mother." The doctor looked surprised.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. I didn't know-"

"Well, obviously not, or you wouldn't have said that!" Sherlock exploded. "I don't care about stupid niceties. I just want to see my brothers. So could you tell me where they are?" The doctor's eyes widened for a moment, and he thought she might be angry, but she only put her hand on his shoulder and steered him into the room Mrs Johnston was in, then left without saying another word.

Mrs Johnston was laying in bed. She looked fine, bruised and beaten but otherwise okay, and he wondered why they had admitted her. He rather didn't feel like talking, however, and so he didn't say anything, only sitting in the chair in the corner. Mrs Johnston, however, did not feel the same way.

"Sherlock! Thank heavens, are you okay? I haven't seen anyone else. You look alright - have you seen the others? How are they?"

"I haven't seen them, I'm fine, leave me alone," he growled, and she, surprised, didn't say another word.

Rob and Charlie came in next, gripping each other's hands tightly. They had refused to let go of each other since they had gotten out of the car, no matter what, and Charlie's eyes were still as big as saucers, but they seemed okay. Mrs Johnston pestered them for information as much as she had Sherlock, but Rob refused to speak and Charlie didn't know anything. Sherlock was in the only chair in the room, so they climbed up on her bed and sat next to her, one on each side with her arms wrapped around them, and still holding hands, although the grip was loosened a bit.

A few minutes passed, and still there was no doctor, no one coming with news or a room number or just to drop in and say that everyone was fine, until finally Michael arrived, right arm in a sling, which was odd since Sherlock had thought he was uninjured.

"Michael! Are you alright?" demanded Mrs Johnston. Clearly she had not expected a sling either.

"I'm fine. I popped my shoulder out of socket - hurt like the dickens when they popped it back in, and I'm stuck in this sling for a couple of days, but I'm completely fine otherwise. How are you, Mom?" he said, and Sherlock could have screamed - did he have news or not? Did he know where the others where? But he couldn't speak.

"Oh, I'm okay. I got a nasty concussion, but other than that I'm fine. They're keeping me here overnight for observation, though, just in case. Do you know what happened to Mycroft and Cassidy and John?" she asked, this clearly her primary concern.

"Oh, Cass is okay. She broke her wrist, apparently, but she'll be fine in a few weeks, and other than that she's right as rain. And Mycroft will be okay. I didn't see what happened myself but someone told me he conked his head too - he'll be staying here overnight just like you. I think he's okay otherwise. I have no idea what happened to John, though, I didn't see anything and I haven't heard anything at all. We'll have to wait." He sat down on the bed, which creaked between the combined weight of himself, Mrs Johnston, Rob, and Charlie.

Sherlock was out of his mind with worry now. Where was John? What if he was really and truly hurt, or if his leg was shattered beyond repair? What if they put him in a room so far away he couldn't go see him, or he needed surgery, or- he worked himself into quite a state, he just couldn't stop worrying, and no one realized. No one even noticed him, all by himself in the corner, about to explode with worry, and then he just couldn't do it any more, and he stood up, and he left. He had seen a bathroom down the hall, and that was where he headed, not for any real reason, but he just had to leave, he just had to get out of there.

The bathroom was quiet and empty, which was just what he needed. He locked himself into a stall and for a moment stood still, completely, perfectly still... and then the dam broke and he was gasping and sobbing and tears streamed down his cheeks and he almost couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, couldn't calm down for what seemed like forever.

The door to the stall he was in was pulled open easily. He hadn't quite locked it all the way, and it wasn't difficult for Michael to open at all. Sherlock didn't even care, he nearly didn't even notice when Michael knelt down and wrapped his arms around him. But it was warm and soft and comforting, and eventually he could breathe and think again.

"You'll be okay, Sherlock, they'll be okay, it will all be okay. We'll find John soon and he'll be fine. And whatever happens, I'm here, okay? I'll help you. I can help. It will be okay, Sherlock," he said softly.

Sherlock remembered himself suddenly and stood up stock straight, mortified at being caught in such a state. He could feel a pit in his stomach eating away through his organs, like a piece of stone burning through everything it touched, dense and hot and terrible. His face turned red in his embarrassment, redder than it already was from crying, and if he had died at the moment he almost wouldn't have minded.

Michael clearly felt differently than Sherlock did, and Sherlock was glad to see that he didn't make fun of him, although his pity, Sherlock thought, was nearly as bad. But it couldn't get to much worse, so he let Michael lead him to the sink and help him wash off his face. He refused to go back to the room, though. He couldn't go back in there and see them all again and hear Michael tell them about how he had been found sobbing his heart out in a bathroom. He wouldn't.

Michael understood this, though, somehow, and he didn't try to make Sherlock go back in. Rather, he brought the chair out and set it by the door, not quite in view, which was still too close for comfort, but it was better than inside. And then in a move that surprised Sherlock, Michael grabbed an extra chair from the room next door, which was empty, and set it down next to him without a word. There they sat, waiting for something to happen, and waiting for news of John.


	18. Chapter 17

Doctor Watson rolled her eyes, irritated. That kid was the reason she hadn't gone into pediatrics, she thought, him and all his type. She couldn't stand children. So it was only natural that she had been in the ER when a whole car full of kids had come in - of course, it had been her.

Still, she had made a promise, even if it was to such a bratty kid, and she intended to keep it. She had a pang of guilt about calling him bratty - after all, he'd just been in a car accident, and he was just a foster kid - but that wasn't an excuse. He still had no call to be rude when she was just trying to help.

It took a little while to find any sort of Holmes. They hadn't been admitted yet when she'd checked, so she was really just asking around. She wouldn't have put so much effort into it, really probably shouldn't have, but that kid had gotten under her skin, and she was determined to come back, triumphant, and give them room numbers at the very least.

Finally she found the doctor who had looked over Mycroft Holmes. He directed her to room 226, where he was being kept overnight for a concussion - nothing major. Mycroft didn't know where the other kid was, but he told her everything she needed to know to find him, and it was a simple matter after that.

All news is good news, Sherlock muttered to himself grimly, seeing the doctor approach. He steeled himself to hear what she would say; she certainly looked as though she was the bearer of bad news. Instead of turning and addressing him, though, she addressed Michael.

"Are you his brother?" she asked, gesturing towards Sherlock. He shook his head.

"I'm his foster brother," he told her.

"Is your mother - is your legal guardian in that room?" she asked him, no doubt remembering how angry Sherlock had gotten when she'd referred to Mrs Johnston as his mother.

"Yeah," he said. "Do you have any news?" She nodded, and he stood up and went into the room everyone else was in, beckoning her to follow. "Mom, she has news for us."

"You're the legal caretaker of Mycroft and John Holmes?" the doctor asked. Mrs Johnston nodded her head. Rob and Charlie had fallen asleep, somehow. "Mycroft is fine. He has a concussion, and we're keeping him overnight for observation - he hit his head pretty hard on the dash - but he'll be okay. John is another matter, though. His leg is fractured pretty badly and it looks like he'll need physical therapy. He also has a couple of broken ribs and a punctured lung, and he'll need to stay in the hospital for at least a week." Mrs Johnston was frowning, worried.

"But he'll be okay after that?" she asked.

"He should be fine," said the doctor. Mrs Johnston sighed in relief for a moment, then she looked up again.

"Do you... I hate to ask, but do you know whether the state will pay for all of this or not? They're my foster sons..." She trailed off.

"I don't know, but you can ask your doctor the next time you see him, and he should be able to find out for you. Now, I have to go," said the doctor briskly, checking her watch. "I have other patients to see."

"Just one more question," Mrs Johnston said. "Do you know what happened to my daughter Cassidy? No one seems to know - "

"I don't, sorry, but you can ask your doctor when you see him. Now I really have to be off." Doctor Watson left, relieved at leaving. Behind her, Mrs Johnston had a worried look on her face again, but she didn't say anything.

After a few minutes, though, a thought came to her as she looked around the room.

"Michael, do you have your cell phone on you?" she asked. "Can I borrow it?" He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. The screen was cracked, but it had survived the crash. Her own had been broken.

Sherlock was still standing in the corner, his thoughts whirling about his mind. John had a punctured lung - he would have to stay in the hospital for a iweek,/i at least - Mycroft had to stay for a night too, and Sherlock didn't know what he could do. Suppose Mrs Johnston had to pay for this? Surely she wouldn't want to keep them after that. Hospital bills were expensive, Sherlock knew, and hospital bills for eight people were bound to stack up high. Nervously, he chewed his lip, worrying about what would happen to them next.

His thoughts were interrupted by Mrs Johnston's voice, speaking into the phone to a friend.

"Charlene, hi. How are you? ...I'm glad to hear it, but listen, Charlene, I got into a car crash - I know, but listen. I'm going to be in the hospital for a night and I need somebody to watch my kids. ...No, not all of them, but if you could take just a few, that would be helpful. ...I'll need you to pick them up, though, I can't drop them off. Can - yes. Thanks so much. I'll come and get them tomorrow as soon as I can." She hung up, wrote something down, and dialed again, making a similar call. This one was not so fruitful, but it seemed she had plenty of people she could call, which was good, because she had plenty of kids. Eventually she handed Michael his phone back. Rob and Charlie had been woken up somewhat by her talking, and she addressed everyone now.

"All right, guys, you're going to stay with some friends overnight while I'm here. Rob, Charlie, you two are going to Aaron's house for a sleepover tonight - you can tell him all about your day, and you can stay up late if you want, won't that be fun?" she said, trying to make it sound exciting. Charlie looked uncertain, still.

"How come you have to stay here? How come we can't go home?" he asked.

"Oh, I bonked my head when the car crashed. It's nothing bad, so I'm coming home tomorrow, but they want me to sleep over here for a day," Mrs Johnston said. He thought about this for a moment, looked at Rob, and then nodded at her. "Michael, Sherlock, you two are going to stay with my friend Charlene tonight. You'll have to share a bedroom, or else one of you can sleep on the couch - there's only one guest bed." Michael seemed okay with that, but Sherlock's eyes opened wide and his hands stimmed with anxiety.

"But I - I can't," he blurted out. "I can't do that."

"Why not?" asked Mrs Johnston, but he couldn't answer her, almost couldn't put it in words himself, only shrugging. His hands twisted behind his back, where he had hidden them.

"Is it something to do with John and Mycroft?" asked Michael, amazing Michael who understood somehow what Sherlock couldn't say out loud. He nodded. "You don't want to leave them?" Sherlock nodded again, just a small tip of his head, and Michael put a hand on his shoulder. It was a good gesture, one Sherlock normally would have shied away from, but instead of feeling like a burning weight on his skin the hand felt solid and comforting, a tie to the world outside of his mind.

 **A/N**

Hi, guys... sorry about the total lack of updates! I've been crazy busy (spent three weeks on the road, gah, it was awesome but horrifying to my schedule). I'll try and come back to this story henceforth as best as I can (although who knows, because I'm hitting the road again next week... I lead a very busy life, yeah).

To the guest who left the last review (was that you, paula. ?): You said '...I kind of prefer a hurt Sherlock story though.' I know what you mean. But I feel like there are a lot of hurt Sherlock stories out there - I wanted to explore him hurt more emotionally, rather than physically (hence the traumatizing background and the crushing of John's leg, which I thought would be worse for him than getting his own leg crushed). Sorry, John! ;)


	19. Chapter 18

In the end, despite Sherlock's best efforts, he went to Charlene's. She didn't come to pick them up until visiting hours were all but over, at Sherlock's request, but still...

They did eventually get some wind of Cassidy. It turned out that she had not so much sprained her wrist as shattered it. Otherwise, though, she was completely fine ("Oh, thank God!" Mrs Johnston said, finally able to relax now that all of her children were located). Sherlock went to visit her, since they wouldn't let him see John while he was sedated, and she was as irritatingly positive as ever. Although he'd never have admitted it, he almost didn't mind. He had to hear something good, he guessed, even if that good was 'well, at least we'll all be okay in a couple of months!'

That night, he laid awake for hours. He was exhausted, and by all rights he should've fallen asleep immediately like Michael did, his snores echoing around the room a minute after the lights were turned out. Somehow, though, he couldn't relax enough to drift off. Everything he very carefully hadn't thought about during the daytime crowded in on him - what would happen next? Would Mrs Johnston be able to pay for their medical bills? What if she couldn't, and she decided she had to get rid of them? And what if John's leg didn't heal right? What if he couldn't run and jump and climb the magnolia tree anymore? Even Mycroft, the untouchable one, Mycroft had a concussion. His brain had crashed into his skull. Even if Sherlock hadn't known what that meant, he'd know it was bad - bad enough to keep Mycroft overnight.

No, he knew he wouldn't sleep well that night.

He woke up the next morning not feeling rested at all. If anything, he felt more tired. His eyes were lined with dark shadows. Michael joked if he wanted he could probably be accepted into a raccoon's colony if he wanted to, until he saw that Sherlock wasn't laughing.

"It's going to be okay," he told him seriously. "Don't worry so much. It will turn out, okay?" he said. Sherlock shrugged, thinking of his suitcase, still half packed at the Johnstons'. Michael was right that he wouldn't have to worry about that, at least.

Charlene brought them back to the Johnstons', where Mrs Johnston had been since early that morning. Sherlock was glad to see her, glad that she was all right, but he still couldn't bring himself to ask the question stuck nagging in the back of his mind.

Mrs Johnston refused to bring them to the hospital, however. They had to wait for Rob and Charlie at the very least, she said, and besides that she was still extremely tired from the previous day's events and could very certainly use a good day's rest. To Sherlock's worried complaint that John would think they had abandoned him since he hadn't seen him since the previous day, she smiled and told him she had been by to see him that morning.

"How was he?" Sherlock demanded. "Is he doing all right? When can I see him?" Then he blushed, embarrassed at his show of emotion.

"He's fine, Sherlock, I promise. We're going to go see him and Cassidy this evening - iafter/i we've all had the chance to rest up a little," Mrs Johnston said. He bit his lip, but didn't say anything, not wanting to push his luck.

He brought a book upstairs with him to read and hopefully to pass a couple of hours with, but he couldn't focus on it. After staring at the same page for almost ten minutes, he gave up and laid it down on the bedside table, giving in to the swirling clouds of thoughts and worries and anxieties in his mind. He thought about the same things over and over, the same thoughts and trains of thought, but he couldn't think of anything else - couldn't even conceive of anything else to think of for more than a few moments.

Eventually, because he truly was exhausted, he fell asleep.


	20. Chapter 19

Sherlock knew he was in for a long, sleepless night even before they got home. The combination of the past few days' events and the nap he'd taken earlier - he really wished he hadn't done that - had left him jittery, nervous, and above all wide awake. He'd estimate there was at best an eleven per cent chance that he would fall asleep tonight, based on data from past scenarios. Mycroft might have been able to help, or perhaps Mummy - but he wouldn't think of that. As high-strung as he knew his emotions were at the present, just the thought of either of the two put a pit in the center of his abdomen and sent a surge of anger to his mind so strong it made the cut on his head hurt. It would be difficult to regulate his emotions at the present moment - such things were therefore not even worth thinking about.

He had to occupy his mind somehow, though. He couldn't just do nothing. It wasn't even an option.

He wandered over to his bag, now neatly packed once more in preparation for what he felt was near to come, and pulled out his familiar chemistry textbook and a notebook and pen that Mrs Johnston had given him. In the back of the text were were a sample of practice problems he hadn't completed in at least three weeks, just long enough that he couldn't name the answers off of the top of his head. They were familiar, for certain, but he didn't have them memorized, and they were at least somewhat difficult, unlike all of the problems in the first nine chapters. He could probably recite the whole book nearly verbatim by now, to be honest.

When he next checked the clock on the wall, it read 9:14. It had been a little over an hour and he had already finished nearly all of the practice problems.

No, he was definitely in for a long night.

Hours later, when he had literally done every single practice problem in the book, when he had recited every poem, every list, every number he had ever memorized to more than a hundred digits - in short, when he was so bored that he could scream - he gave up and snuck downstairs to get a book or three.

He made it all the way to the bookcase without incident, and when he had an armful of books, enough to occupy him for at least a few more hours, he turned around and saw Rob sitting on the armchair in the corner watching him. They stared at each other for a moment. Ron broke the silence first.

"You couldn't sleep either," he observed.

"No," said Sherlock warily.

"The crash?" asked Rob.

"Among other things," Sherlock replied. Rob smiled, a wry little grin that was very much out of place on his young face. "You couldn't sleep either, I see."

"No," Rob said simply.

"The crash?" Sherlock asked. Rob grinned.

"Among other things," he said. Neither spoke for several minutes, only watched the other.

"You and John aren't the only fosters, you know," Rob said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Obviously," said Sherlock, an ironic tone to his voice. It was certainly clear that Cassie wasn't Mrs Johnston's flesh and blood.

"It's not just you and Cassie either," Rob told him in a tone that suggested Sherlock was being somewhat stupid. Sherlock rankled at his voice, but he didn't say anything. "You know that the only one of us who are actually biologically hers is Michael? Cassie and Charlie are both adopted, and I'm just here in long term placement." The slightly bitter tone his voice took on at the end belied his age as Sherlock had estimated it, and he could tell that Rob clearly was not quite what Sherlock had thought. He raised a brow.

"Why?"

The question itself was certainly simple, but its meaning was anything but. There's always a reason you're in foster care. However good you might have it now, something had happened beforehand that necessitated being placed here.

"Do you really want to know?" Rob said. Sherlock shrugged, but his curiosity was piqued. "Ever heard of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome? Basically, it means my birth mother downed so much alcohol while she was pregnant that I got epilepsy and severely stunted growth. How old would you guess me to be?"

"My initial assumption was no older than eight," Sherlock said.

"I'm eleven and a half," he said, and Sherlock couldn't stop a surprised look from coming to his face. Rob saw it, of course. "Yeah. That's about where people usually place me. But st least I'm clever, right? Could've been my brainpower that was stunted, or both. I could've been a vegetable. Not that I should complain. They never expected me to be able to walk, much less run or climb a tree or do freaking origami." Sherlock nodded. What was there to say? "Anyways, that's my tragic backstory. It's your turn. Spill the beans - tell me why you would be a perfect human being, if only your sad life hadn't beaten the crap out of you and then put you in the foster care system."

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asked, trying to find a loophole to sidestep the question with. He was foiled by Rob's very simple answer.

"Why are you in the foster care system?"

"My brother."

"You'll have to elaborate a bit more than that." Sherlock sighed.

"We had been home alone for almost two weeks. We were fine - Mycroft was working odd jobs, I had a newspaper route, and John took care of the house - we even kept the driveway shoveled. Everything was fine. And then one day the fat lazy git decided he didn't want to walk home after school, and he got a ride, and somehow they figured it out and they called the police and long story short? This is our fourth placement together, probably our last, and when Mrs Johnston decides that seven kids is just a few too many to take care of, especially when they all have medical issues, and realizes that she could ever so easily cut her load almost in half by sending us along to some other placement - placements, I should say, because there aren't any more that will take us all - well, it's only the most practical decision. 'It's not because we don't love you - it's not that there's something wrong with /you/ - we just don't feel like we can't take care of you anymore' - I know how it goes," Sherlock finished, a bitter twist to his own lips. "It's never my /fault/ - it's just that, you know, I'm too much of a worry and and a bother, and they're sure that the /next/ placement will be better for me." Rob nodded; he understood. After a moment, he picked the book he had been reading before Sherlock had come downstairs back up and went back to reading it as though he had only just put it down.

And maybe Sherlock felt just the smallest bit of respect for this angry, bitter boy who understood what it meant to be just a foster child.


	21. Chapter 20

Naturally Sherlock was awake until almost six in the morning. He couldn't say that he was surprised; that wasn't terribly far off of his estimated time, five thirty. He had hoped, though... well, that only went to show how far that took a person.

Mrs Johnston woke him up at nine, when she woke everyone else up. Breakfast was a quiet affair, for him, of course. Sherlock would not be considered talkative at the best of times, and in his still rather exhausted state, he couldn't bring himself to do much more than nod politely when asked a question. Maybe he didn't need much sleep, but this was pushing it, even for him.

They headed to the hospital after breakfast. Cassidy's doctor had told Mrs Johnston that Cass and Mycroft could probably go home that morning if all went well overnight, so Mrs Johnston was ready to get going as soon as possible to see if they would be released, hurrying them along to finish breakfast and get ready. Sherlock didn't mind all the rushing, though. He would be glad to see John again.

He wasn't sure whether he would be glad to see Mycroft, of course - it was his fault they were all in this predicament - but he would deal with that when it came to that.

Cassidy was still asleep when they arrived ("Lazy bones," whispered Mrs Johnston affectionately), so Michael was more than happy to take Sherlock to see John. He could've found the right room himself, of course, but the last time he had tried wandering about the hospital by himself some pesky nurse had warned him against doing that again, and he felt sure that Mrs Johnston would be rather disappointed if she saw him escorted back to the right room again in shame (not that he cared, he reminded himself. It was time to let go of whatever silly attachment he might have had for her). Besides, Charlie and Rob wanted to come too, and babysitting, Sherlock felt, was best left to people who were not named Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" John called, as soon as he saw him through his window. His grin lit up his face. "And all of you too!"

"All but Cass, Mycroft, and Mom," Charlie said.

"Where are they?" John asked.

"Cass is going to be checked out this morning, but she's still asleep, so we're letting her rest a little while longer, and Mycroft is supposed to be checked out this morning too, so I think mom's gone to visit him and see if he's all right," Charlie said. John nodded.

"What's it like to spend the night in the hospital?" Michael asked him.

"Haven't you ever done it?" said Rob. Michael shook his head.

"Never in my life," he said solemnly. "The worst injury I ever had was twisting my ankle back when I played soccer -"

"You played soccer?" Charlie interrupted. "How long did you play?"

"Not long," said Michael. "I wasn't very good at it, and like I said, I twisted my ankle playing it - that was near the end of the year - so I only played one season."

"Oh," John said, disappointed. "You know, we have enough people in our family to make a whole soccer team. I was thinking you could be the goalie, Cass and Mrs Johnston could be the defenders, Mycroft could be the midfielder, and all the rest of us could be the forwards." Rob laughed, the first noise Sherlock had heard him make since he woke up.

"Me as a forward? Maybe Cass and I could trade. I'm not athletic at all," he said, and they all laughed.

"Well, maybe you're right," said John. "Nothing is really set in stone I guess."

They decided to go visit Mycroft after that, and reluctantly Sherlock decided to go with them. If it was horrible, he could always hang back in the doorway until he convinced Michael to leave, or at worst just leave and go back to John's room. It would b the first time Sherlock had seen him since the crash - he hadn't gone to see him yesterday.

John was disappointed to see them go, but he told Sherlock to bring back a full report on how Mycroft was.

"I just wish they'd let me see him for a few minutes," he said, grumpy. "I haven't seen him since before we all got into ambulances. It's not fair."

"Life isn't fair," Sherlock told John. He didn't look consoled.

Sherlock's plan did not quite go to fruition, however. Mycroft's reaction upon seeing him was much the same as John's, although backwards, since instead of leading the way Sherlock was in the back of the pack. Sherlock was surprised to see what appeared to be genuine concern on his brother's face.

"Sherlock! Are you okay? Why on earth didn't you come and visit yesterday?!" he demanded. Michael all but pushed Sherlock over to the bed, and Mycroft grabbed his sleeve. "Did you miss the part where we all were in a car accident?! And hearing that you're okay from everyone else is not the same as seeing you!" Sherlock glared at him.

"What do you care?" he said, defensive. "And let go of my sleeve!" He yanked his arm away from Mycroft's grasp. Mycroft stared at him in disbelief.

"What kind of stupid question is that?" he demanded. "You're my brother, of course I care! Did you honestly believe that just avoiding me was a good solution? I know you're mad at me for... for this," he gesticulated towards the others, "no offense to all of you of course - and I am sure that you blame me for this," he turned back to Sherlock and gestured vaguely around the hospital room,"but Sherlock!" He stopped and took a breath. After a moment, Sherlock felt the need to continue -

"Yes, Mycroft?" he said in his coldest voice -

"We are in a hospital room, Sherlock, and I am in a hospital bed! Do I really need to continue?!"

"Maybe not," said Sherlock sullenly. Mycroft had certainly not made his point clear, but at this point Sherlock was just ready for him to be done. Mycroft continued nonetheless.

"You're my brother, you idiot. I care about you." Sherlock stared at him. "I literally could not say this in plainer terms. Use your supposedly ridiculously large brain to figure it out." Mycroft turned away in disgust, then suddenly turned back and enveloped Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock resisted at first, of course, but eventually - he didn't hug him back, but he submitted to the hug.

"Aww," said Michael. "You two are finally making up. Now maybe we'll be able to eat a meal together without you shooting dagger-eyed glares across the table at him." Everyone laughed, and Mycroft let go of Sherlock, who moved away and sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the room. He grabbed his chart as he walked past the foot of the bed - John had asked for a full report, after all - and began to read it, carefully ignoring them all.


End file.
